


Timeless Whumplets

by newisalwaysbetter



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Caretaker Garcia Flynn, Caretaking, Carrying, Cuddling, Drink Spiking, Drugging, Electrocution, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Flynn takes care of his team, Flynn's affection is aggressive, Food Issues, Hangover, Humiliation, Hurt Lucy Preston, Hurt Wyatt Logan, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, In some chapters, Jacket sharing, LadyWhump, M/M, Mild Injury, Not Shippy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Sharing Body Heat, Torture, Whump, Whump and fluff, Wyatt Logan's Bisexuality Crisis, each chapter appropriately tagged, everything appropriately tagged, forced medicine, tags will update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-11-07 16:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 15,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17963891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newisalwaysbetter/pseuds/newisalwaysbetter
Summary: A place to dump the whump ficlets I'm fond of writing for Timeless. Generally injury/sickness/caretaker focused. May include any number of ships. Rated teen for cursing and canon-typical injuries. Never anything too gory.Most recently, an important Rittenhouse agent uses Lucy as a human shield, and she begs Flynn to shoot through her to kill him





	1. Wyatt whump, carrying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: caretaking, mild injuries, injured legs, carrying, team work, arguable Flogan and/or Garcy
> 
> Setting: early-to-mid S2
> 
> Wyatt gets hurt, and the only one who can help him is the last person he wants to.  
> As always, I take fic suggestions over at to-hell-with-oblivion on tumblr :)

The four of them hiked along the highway for hours, Rufus holding Wyatt up. Wyatt's legs had been functional when they started, but Rufus couldn't hold him off the ground entirely and his sprains were rapidly worsening. As the sun began to rise, they stopped by the side of the road to breathe. Rufus and Wyatt were both gasping. "I need a break, dude," Rufus said, and dropped Wyatt unceremoniously on the margin. He went down with a started grunt.

"Look, I know it's hard, and I'm sorry, but we've gotta keep moving." Wyatt propped himself up and glanced towards the brightening horizon. "We gotta find a payphone before those Rittenhouse jerks catch up to us."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I  _can't_ carry you any more." Rufus put up his hands. "I'm a coder, not a bodybuilder."

Wyatt looked up. "Lucy?"

"I'm sorry, Wyatt, but I don't think I'm strong enough. The way your legs are, you need someone to hold most of your weight."

Wyatt swung his gaze back to Rufus expectantly.

"No. I already told you, no."

"Oh for god's sake," Flynn snapped, advancing on Wyatt.

"What?" Wyatt frowned, putting up a hand. "No way."

"Enough of this," Flynn hissed. "You have me; you might as well make use of me, mm? We all know I can carry you longer than they can, so let me do this."

Wyatt glared up at him. Flynn raised his eyebrows. "I'm happy to leave you here by the side of the road, but you are the one who said we had to keep moving."

Wyatt's eyes narrowed, but it was hard to look dignified sprawled in the dirt. "Fine," he snapped. "Let's do this. Come get me."

"Finally," Flynn said, "some sense." Lucy turned away tactfully.

Wyatt averted his eyes as Flynn leaned over him, hoisted him under the arms, and pulled Wyatt's arm over his shoulder. Flynn's grasp was firm but surprisingly gentle, and he held Wyatt's full weight while Wyatt struggled to get his injured legs under him. Wyatt flailed, face screwed up in concentration and pain. Wordlessly, Flynn wrapped an arm around Wyatt's waist, supporting him, taking Wyatt's weight in his arms. Wyatt huffed and looked away, but after a moment, he nodded in embarrassed gratitude.

Rufus was watching unabashedly. He cocked his head and leaned over to speak to Lucy in a low voice.

"Whoa, who knew Flynn was so jacked?"

Lucy swallowed hard and ducked her gaze.

Flynn had one arm around Wyatt's waist and one hand holding Wyatt's wrist over his shoulder. The stress rippled through Wyatt's body, and Flynn could feel Wyatt trembling against him. _It must hurt._ Although Flynn would usually take any opportunity to embarrass Wyatt, he's concerned that Wyatt's breathing is coming in harsh little puffs. Flynn finds himself surprised by that concern; even moreso when something warm and familiar curls in his chest.

It's an emotion he's well used to putting away. Still, he cant resist ducking his head to mutter firmly into Wyatt's ear, "Will you be all right?"

"I'm fine," Wyatt grits out, although it's slightly less convincing when his voice turns up on a jolt of pain. Flynn gives him the side-eye, then shrugs lightly.

"Whatever you say."

Rufus pats Wyatt on the shoulder. Lucy gives him a concerned look, but he nods, and together they head down the road into the growing light.


	2. Wyatt whump, drugging, captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: drugging, captivity, mild humiliation
> 
> Setting: mid-S2 or an imaginary season 3, wherein Emma is with Rittenhouse
> 
> This has also been posted on my tumblr. As always, I take fic requests over at to-hell-with-oblivion :)

Wyatt doesn’t know where he is.

He comes to on the floor of a filthy little cell, in near-complete darkness. There’s cold concrete under his aching limbs, and gravel pressing into his cheek.

His eyelids flutter and he blinks hard through the gloom. His limbs feel like lead. The contours of the room, such as it is, become visible around him. Wyatt is curled into himself, but the space isn’t even large enough for him to stretch out fully.

They’ve thrown him into some sort of closet.

 _Rittenhouse_ , he remembers suddenly. He’d sworn to Lucy and Rufus that he’d hold their attackers off and catch up to them later, but he hadn’t expected the Rittenhouse goons to come from behind. He braces a hand to prop himself up, but the room sways around him and his left temple throbs. Wyatt groans.

Right. They’d clocked him. He remembers that.

He gets himself up on his elbow, but the effort has him breathing hard and holding his head. There’s a nasty bump there, all right, warm and oversensitive. There’s a yellow rectangle on the wall above him that seems to be swaying, but Wyatt realizes with a sick twist in his stomach that it’s a grimy window, on a door, and that he’s the one swaying violently. Wyatt thinks he might be sick. 

_What the hell did they do to me?_

There’s something he doesn’t remember–it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t  _think,_  something’s wrong with him–

They’ll be coming to him soon. Wyatt isn’t sure how he knows that. 

And then, whatever they’ve done to him, they’ll do it again. He needs to get up; he needs to  _fight_.

He’s is trying to remember more, but the gap in his memory remains stubbornly dark. Wyatt studies the floor of his cell, panting from the pain and trying to suppress the panic rising in his throat. How long have they been keeping him here?

A doorknob above him turns with a creak, and a yellow rectangle of light opens in front of him. It’s filled with a tall, bulky form that Wyatt doesn’t recognize, although the military boots in front of him stir dark, recent memories.

Wyatt cranes his head to look up at his captor, but the motion makes the room spin around him and he falls back with a groan. He’s had concussions before, bad ones, that laid him up for months. This is something else.

The man above him snorts derisively. “He looks like shit.”

He can’t see who answers, but the voice is all too familiar.

“He’s been here for a week; what do you expect? The way we’ve been treating him, I’m surprised he can even sit up.”

Wyatt’s heart stops. A week? He’s forgotten a  _week_?

He opens his mouth to say  _what did you do to me,_  but his mouth isn’t working and all that comes out is a distressed babble. He can’t talk.

“Aww, that’s cute.” Something moves in the doorway behind the man. Emma. “That panicked little face he makes every time I tell him how long it’s been?” He can almost hear her smirk. “You’d think it’d get old.”

The man takes a heavy step forward. Wyatt’s brain is moving slowly. Whatever they’ve been doing to him is about to happen again. The door’s open, this is his only chance…

_C’mon, Logan, on your feet._

Wyatt struggles to boost himself up, but his limbs won’t respond and he keeps slipping down. The man is looming over him now.

“No,” he manages.

The man squats down next to him. Wyatt sees stubble, bulky shoulders, and meaty hands. Gritting his teeth, he tries to roll away.

A big hand closes around his throat and holds him down. The man’s voice is gruff. “Hold still.”

“He doesn’t listen to orders,” Emma drawls. “Just dose him.”

Wyatt bats at the hand on his throat, but there’s no strength behind his hands and he feels kittenish and small. He whines.

“Ready for your medicine?”

Wyatt sees a gold tooth flash in a vicious smile. The light from the hall flashes over a syringe above him. Wyatt babbles with his useless tongue, panic raising his voice an octave. They’ve been drugging him. For a week.

And they’re about to do it again.

“Shut him up,” Emma orders.

Tears spring to Wyatt’s eyes as the needle pierces his skin. They’ve been doing this to him. They’ve been drugging him every day. He’s been fighting every day. For a  _week_.

The man removes the needle from his throat and stands, tucking it into his pocket. “We done here?”

“Yeah.” The drugs are taking him quickly. Wyatt’s arm gives out from under him and he’s back on the ground. The cold concrete comes up hard under his head wound and sends things spinning. Wyatt moans.

Emma smiles down at their captive, who flops on the ground like a beached fish, gaping and making small squeaking noises from the back of his throat. His eyelashes are fluttering, and she knows from past experience that he’ll be under soon. His fingers twitch and claw at the earth. “Sweet dreams, Wyatt.”

A tear slides out and rolls down his cheek. Emma catches his panicked gaze a second before she shuts him back into the dark room.

There’s work to do, after all. And even unconscious, Wyatt will make the perfect bait.


	3. Lucy whump, sicfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: sickfic, fever, caretaking, garcy and possible lyatt
> 
> Setting: S1 or early S2

The mission had been going fine, except for the part where Flynn was along for the ride, and the part where they had gotten separated from the _Lifeboat,_ and the part where they were now following a river in the hope that it would lead them to the small mountain where they had parked the _Lifeboat._ Still, at this point all of this almost seems normal, compared to what they've been through before.

Then Lucy slips on a rock and falls into the river.

By the time they pull her out, Lucy is soaked to the bone. Wyatt wraps her in his arms, and Lucy buries her face in his warm neck and trembles with cold. Although Wyatt wants nothing more than to cuddle Lucy warm, they can't afford to stay in one place for too long. And when Rufus suggests that walking will warm her up, Lucy huffs hard and agrees.

They're halfway up the mountain when Lucy collapses.

Wyatt had made Flynn go first. Rufus follows with a gun, Lucy walks in the middle, and Wyatt brings up the rear. They're within sight of the summit when Lucy mutters, "gonna sit down," and crumples to the earth.

"Lucy!" Wyatt catches her before her head hits the ground. He cradles her face in his hands; Rufus stands nervously nearby and Flynn comes bounding over the stone.

Lucy's back almost instantly, blinking and holding Wyatt's hand to her face. "What happened...? Did I...?"

"Passed out, yeah." Wyatt frowns. "You're burning up."

"Let me see." Flynn leans over Lucy, inspecting her eyes. Wyatt glares, and Flynn's attention snaps to him. "I'm sorry, have you ever survived yellow fever? Because I'm fairly certain that Lucy has become infected."

"What, and you've had yellow fever?" Wyatt scoffs.

"Yes," Flynn says shortly, and returns his attention to Lucy. "She's feverish. Dilated pupils."

"And I'm guessing that's bad?" Rufus says.

"Luce, how we feeling?" Wyatt strokes her face. He tries to give a confident smile, but he's shaky under it.

"Cold." Lucy looks at her hands. They're shaking. "Like, really cold."

Rufus looks up. "The sun _is_ coming down. And that wet dress probably isn't doing you any favors."

Flynn rises, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We have extra clothing in the _Lifeboat._ There's nothing to do but keep walking." Wyatt nods, and he and Rufus help Lucy to her feet.

"Ready to move?" Flynn looks over them. "Keep an eye on her, please," he adds when he sees Lucy shivering. His voice is tight with frustration. "And...until we get there..." Flynn sheds his black longcoat and drapes it over Lucy's shoulders. It swallows up her short frame, and the sleeves hang down to her fingertips.

"Are you sure?" Lucy fingers the fabric. "It'll get wet..."

"It's seen worse." Flynn scans the horizon. "Try to stay warm, okay?"

Lucy nods, suddenly shy. "Okay."


	4. Lucy whump, caretaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short one. Setting irrelevant. Mild garcy vibes. No warnings except for canon-typical injury.
> 
> As always, I continue to take prompts (especially whump!) over at to-hell-with-oblivion on tumblr :)

Flynn is gentle and thorough. He checks her pulse and breathing, make sure her eyes are tracking, puts his hand on her forehead, cleans the handcuff cuts on her wrists with antiseptic (and soothes her through the pain with small words), bandages her injuries, and makes her drink a bottle of water.

"Thanks," Lucy croaks, when Flynn withdraws to wash her blood off his hands.

Flynn offers her a protein bar. "Eat."


	5. Garcy, Lucy whump, captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: captivity, whump, ladywhump, implied garcy  
> Warnings: canon-compliant violence  
> Setting: S1

Flynn and his men are moving armed through the Rittenhouse base in a tight unit. They’ve left several men writhing on the floor behind them, but none of the blood on them is theirs; Flynn prides himself on having not yet lost a man. 

They kick down a padlocked door in the heart of the base, expecting to find someone or at least something important. Instead they find Lucy.

It takes Flynn a moment to recognize the filthy, emaciated body crumpled onto the floor of the cell. He’s not used to seeing her like this: hair matted with blood, barefoot and handcuffed, curled into a little ball. The rags of whatever she was wearing hang limply, revealing the bruised and starved lines of her body.

Flynn recognizes her almost at the same moment he knows he won’t be able to leave her.

The familiar rage at Rittenhouse flashes through him, red and vicious. “Watch the door,” he snaps to Karl, and his men tactfully drop back to guard the hall. Flynn’s protective instincts kick in, and he advances, shedding his longcoat. Lucy’s eyes flash at him suddenly from under her hair, and she scrambles sideways, away from him, pulling her rags tighter around her body. She bares her teeth, snarling, and although Flynn is stopped in his tracks, the glimpse of her usual spirit shocks him back into reality. He can feel the blood of Rittenhouse agents dried on his face and in his hair, and in his soldier mode, Flynn’s eyes are enormous and wild. He must look a fright.

(Besides, the last time he and Lucy had met had hardly gone well.)

“You don’t have to be scared,” Flynn assures her gently. He sinks to his knees and holsters his gun deliberately, holding up his other hand. Lucy watches him cautiously from under a ragged curtain of hair. “Here. This is for you.” He lays his coat on the floor and slides it towards her. He expects hesitation, but Lucy scrabbles for it instantly, wrapping it around herself to hide her near-nakedness. When she flips up the collar and wraps it around her like a gremlin, Flynn suppresses a smile. 

He whispers, “Do you think you can stand?”

Lucy nods, and boosts herself upright, clinging to the wall. Flynn rises with her, but when she steps away from the wall, her eyelids flicker and she falls forward into his arms. Flynn’s heart stops when he catches her. She smells like sweat and blood.

Lucy’s face looks up at him from under her hair. Her red-rimmed eyes are dazed and wary, her already fair skin is wan, and the dark circles under her eyes make Flynn worry. She bares her teeth, and Flynn is about to release her, when all of a sudden she exhales heavily and drops her head forward to rest on his shoulder. 

“Tired,” she croaks, voice breaking. 

It aches his heart, but Flynn smiles despite himself. If he knows anything about Lucy, he’ll bet anything that she’s been staying awake through whatever they’ve been doing to her. She’s strong.

Lucy is breathing shallowly against his shoulder, so with slow caution, Flynn leans down and gathers her into his arms. As he carries her into the hallway, Lucy’s head lolls against his chest. He can see her struggling to keep her eyes open. She mumbles something, and Flynn lowers his head to hear her rasp, “How long?”

“No longer,” Flynn murmurs. His team advances down the hallway, forming a tight phalanx to protect them. Lucy’s eyes are closed, and he isn’t sure she can hear him, but he tells her anyway. He wants her to know. “You can sleep now. I’ll keep you safe.”


	6. Wyatt whump, hangover, flogan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyatt makes poor choices regarding alcohol. Definitely flogan, arguably garcyatt. With a special guest appearance from Wyatt Logan's Bisexuality Crisis.  
> Mentions of alcohol, cursing, drugging, and also sex (though no sex actually occurs).

Wyatt woke up in the morning with a splitting headache and the world spinning around him. There was daylight streaming through his window, and he had absolutely no memory of the night before.

_How the hell did I get home?_

He rolled over, and into something very solid. Wyatt cracked his eyes open, groaned as the sunlight penetrated his brain, and shut them again.

"Sleep well?" Asked a deep, rumbling voice. Wyatt's stomach dropped. It was far too close, far too familiar, and far too gleeful. It couldn't be.

Wyatt cracked his eyes open again and saw his worst nightmare.

Two inches away from him sat Flynn, laying on top of the sheets, reading the newspaper and looking fresh as a daisy in a clean-pressed dress shirt. Wyatt's heart skipped unpleasantly, and he hid his face in the pillow. "Ugh, tell me I'm dreaming."

"Tell that to the pounding in your head," Flynn said, and retrieved a steaming mug from the bedside table. "Drink this."

Holding a hand to his head, Wyatt propped himself up. He wanted to snap, to keep Flynn at the usual distance, but didn't have the energy. He accepted the mug, which contained some sort of warm yellow-green liquid. Wyatt sniffed it and made a face. "What, you wait until I woke up to poison me?"

"You did that to yourself, my friend." Flynn chuckled low in his throat, and Wyatt's stomach turned over, not entirely from the hangover. "I found you ten shots deep and going fast. Fortunately, you expelled most of that during the walk home."

"The way...?" Wyatt shook his head to clear it, and winced at the sudden stab of pain. "I know I'm gonna regret asking this, but what the hell happened last night?"

(He isn't sure what he's hoping to hear.)

"What, you don't remember?" Flynn folded the newspaper and glanced over. He's twinkling. "Truth be told, I'm a little foggy on the details, but apparently you called Lucy around your seventh shot and confessed to her your undying love."

Wyatt's face screwed up. "Shit."

"Lucy would have come to get you, but she was out to dinner with her family..."

Wyatt groaned. " _Oooo._ "

"...So she called me instead." Flynn smiled without it reaching his eyes. "By the time I got there, you were in pret-ty bad shape." Flynn chuckled. "First you thought I was Lucy, so you confessed your love to me as well. That was fun; I have it on video. And you had already lost your wallet, so I carried you home. You're very welcome." Flynn swung his legs off the bed and got to his feet, walking around to tower over Wyatt. "Now, drink."

"What is this crap?"

"It's an old family recipe. Drink up."

"Yeah, well, it's cold now, so."

"All the better. It's not technically supposed to be heated--in fact, that might have changed the consistency somewhat." Flynn stirred the green liquid with one finger. It was very viscous. "Mm." He gave a sick smile. "I thought you might enjoy it more this way."

"Screw you, Flynn."

"I'm not telling you what's in it, but it _will_ make you feel better. Drink."

Wyatt glared sullenly up at him, but there was really nothing he could do if Flynn decided to force him (not that he'd ever thought about that), so he tilted up the mug and took a big gulp.

The taste was vile--half chemical, half vinegar, and something...crunchy. Wyatt sputtered. "Oh, god, what is _that?_ "

He tried to lower the mug, but Flynn tutted and seized the bottom, holding it up. "Ah-ah. I said, _drink._ " Wyatt glared, but he had no choice but to gulp it down or let it spill down his front. He went with the former.

Flynn made him drink the whole thing, then clapped his cheek condescendingly. His hand was warm.

Distracted by the vile taste, Wyatt gagged. "I think I'm gonna puke."

"No, you won't," Flynn said, vanishing into the bathroom. " _That_ is an entirely different drink. Besides," he called. "You already did the vomiting downstairs."

"And I don't suppose you cleaned that up," Wyatt grumbled.

Flynn snorted. "Why would I? It's _your_ sick."

Wyatt huffed. "I _really_ hate you."

Flynn returned with the mug cleaned and filled with water, and two aspirin, along with a wet washcloth. He handed the former two to Wyatt and let him swallow them. Wyatt got one gulp of water down before the wet washcloth slapped into the side of his face. Wyatt yelled. "What the hell?"

"Sorry," Flynn said, not sounding remotely so. His big hand rubbed the cool washcloth over Wyatt's face, and although Wyatt growled, it felt good to be held, and he didn't resist.

(If he was honest, he probably leaned into the touch a little more than necessary. He was glad that the washcloth hid his face from Flynn.)

Then the hand moved away. "Wash your face," Flynn said, and there was something in his tone that, in his dizzy state, Wyatt couldn't quite read. "You'll feel better." Wyatt peeled the washcloth off his face in time to see Flynn headed out the door.

"What, after all that, you're just leaving?" He tries not to make it sound like a whine.

"I have my own life, Wyatt. I'll come check on you later. But try not to miss me too much."

"Fuck off, Flynn."

"That's not what you were saying last night," Flynn said from the hall.

"Yeah, because I was sauced enough to think you were Lucy."

"Oh, no," Flynn's face appeared in the doorway, alight with mischievous glee. "Not during the walk home."

"Why? Wait, what happened?"

"Oh, nothing much." Flynn sauntered back into the doorway and leaned against the frame, casual as you please. "But you did realize who was carrying you halfway through, and then you confessed some _very_ dirty fantasies. Honestly, I'm flattered, though I do wish you had told me sooner..."

Wyatt gaped like a deer in headlights, unable to form a response. The world swam before him. It was possible he was still dreaming. That would explain this. Or possibly he was dead and in hell. Yeah, that was plausible.

Then the room swung sideways. Or maybe that was just him. "What was in..." Wyatt slurred. "That drink?"

"The best cure for a hangover is to sleep it off. I'll come check on you when you wake up in a few hours. Sweet dreams, Wyatt."

Flynn's voice was the last thing Wyatt heard before it faded into the dark, and Wyatt felt the soft bed come up under him as he descended quickly into a blessed unconsciousness.


	7. Wyatt whump, cold, cuddling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn and Wyatt are stuck in a crashed car, and Wyatt is getting very cold. There's unwilling cuddling.  
> Warnings for cursing, and Flynn's aggressive affection.  
> As always, prompts remain open at to-hell-with-oblivion on tumblr :)

The snow fell steadily over the Illinois countryside.

It lay, like a heavy white blanket, over field and road and forest. It covered the trees, the meridian, and the thick layer of black ice covering the road. It piled slowly in the ditch beside that road, and over the aging rental car lying nose-down within.

Sitting in front of the steering wheel, Wyatt snapped the phone shut and turned to where Flynn was perched in the passenger seat. "Right, here's the deal. Lucy and Rufus will get a car and pick us up. Trouble is, it's a couple hours' drive out here from Rufus's family home." He exhaled heavily. "The fun continues..."

Flynn squinted out the window. "The temperature's still dropping."

"Yeah, well, unless you've got a tank of gas under that coat..."

They sat in silence for a long time, staring out the windows.

"Cold?" Flynn asked.

Wyatt looked away, out the window. Lucy and Rufus had set out from the hotel hours before him and Flynn, to get ahead of the storm, and Wyatt had given Lucy his jacket, which left him in jeans and a thin t-shirt, and not much else. " _No._ " His breath came out white in the air.

The snow continued to fall silently around them, and despite its insulating effect, the temperature in the car was dropping rapidly. Wyatt stiffly folded his hands under his arms. His feet were numb to the ankle, and his nose burned in the cold.

Wyatt could feel himself being watched, and when he glanced over, he found Flynn looking wholly unbothered, and watching him intently.

"What?" Wyatt grumbled.

"Enough of this," Flynn snapped. "You're going to freeze like this."

"Lay off, I'll be fine."

"That wasn't a _metaphor,_ Wyatt. I'd offer you my coat, but that would only delay the problem." Flynn gives Wyatt a look. "We're soldiers. We both know there's a solution here."

"I said, I'm fine."

"Come on; you're minutes from hypothermia. I can _hear_ your teeth chattering. For god's sake, Wyatt, dying isn't worth your pride."

Wyatt side-eyes Flynn. He's so cold. The determined set of Wyatt's jaw has been replaced by a trembling lip, and the cold is making him sleepy. Still, he manages to grind out: "I'm not coming over there."

"Suit yourself," Flynn says, and climbs over the armrest, a massive figure in black. Wyatt sputters and shrinks back, but Flynn is already pushing behind him and looping one long leg around so that Wyatt is sitting between his legs.

With a grunt, Wyatt shoves his stiff elbow back, trying to hit Flynn in the face. Flynn catches it easily and forces Wyatt's arms down, pinning them to his sides in a paralyzing hug. Wyatt struggles, but the cold has sapped his strength and Flynn really is warm as a furnace. Wyatt can already feel the warmth of Flynn's body seeping through his clothes.

Flynn holds him like that until he stops struggling.

"Let me go," Wyatt says. He wants to sound tough, but it comes out like a question.

Flynn snorts, and Wyatt flushes with embarrassment.

" _No,_ " Flynn says in his ear, mimicking Wyatt's petulant tone from earlier. Wyatt clenches his jaw and looks away.

"You're not even that warm," he complains finally.

"I can fix that," Flynn says, "if you sit still for a second. Can you do that?"

"Fuck off," Wyatt snaps. 

Flynn sighs against Wyatt's scalp, and they sit in silence another couple of minutes until Flynn says softly, "Let's try again."

Wyatt feels his heart jump.

"I can warm you up, if you let me. Are you going to let me?"

Shaking from the cold, Wyatt nods.

"Good. Hold still." Flynn releases his arms, and although Wyatt wants to squirm, to fight, he holds still as ordered. He can feel Flynn adjusting something behind him, and then Flynn's black longcoat is pulled around and laid over Wyatt's front, over both of them. It's still warm from Flynn's body heat, and Wyatt feels that warmth settle easily over him.

"We're not done yet," Flynn murmurs. He's still moving around, and suddenly Wyatt hears the close-up sound of ripping fabric and feels freezing air blow across his back. He yells. "What the hell--"

" _Relax._ " Flynn's arms wrap around him under hte coat, and Wyatt feels his bare back come flush up against a warm chest. Flynn has cut open the back of Wyatt's shirt, and unbuttoned the front of his own.

"Skin-to-skin contact," Flynn says into his ear, as if it weren't obvious. "The surest guard against hypothermia."

Wyatt huffs, but he can't really argue. The muscles of Flynn's chest are as firm and warm as an iron.

"Do whatever you want," Flynn tells him. "Just don't fall asleep."

"Fat chance of that," Wyatt mutters.

"Oh, right." Flynn's voice is almost bored. "You'd hate for Lucy and Rufus to see you like this, wouldn't you?"

"Shut up." Wyatt can't look at him.

"Oh, don't worry." Flynn's arms, wrapped loosely around his torso, give a gentle squeeze. "I'm just doing this for Lucy's sake. She'd be _very_ unhappy if I let you die. Much as I'd like to," he adds, and Wyatt snorts, but the return to their usual dynamic soothes his nerves, and Flynn's arms relax around him.

Flynn's chin rests on Wyatt's shoulder, and Wyatt cautiously relaxes against him, and the snow falls gently on the world around them.


	8. Garcy, Flynn whump, PTSD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some garcy for y'all :)  
> Setting: S2/3 | Warnings for implied PTSD and inaccurate handling of a panic attack.  
> This is a prompt fill, after a request! Come send me fic requests at to-hell-with-oblivion on tumblr :)  
> Also, I have a lot of these, so this will be updating more or less daily for a little bit! Feel free to take a few days off if you want to read the new updates all at once :)

Although most of the bunker is underground, it does have aboveground windows, so that whenever a storm passes overhead, the sounds of rain and thunder echo through its concrete halls. Lucy likes the sound of the rain; it reminds her that there’s a world outside that they’re trying to save.

“Flynn?” The door to his room stands ajar, but Lucy still knocks before she sticks her head inside. “Rufus and Jiya made everyone lunch, and we were going to talk strategy before the next–” she cuts off. The room is apparently empty. “Flynn?” He wasn’t in the bathroom, and he’s not in the common room, so there’s nowhere else in the bunker he could be. “Are you in here?”

On the far side of the room, something moves in the darkness under the desk. Lucy steps forward, squinting into the gloom, and makes out a familiar form folded into the small space.

Lucy swallows hard and steps into the room. Carefully closing the door behind her, she crosses the room to where Flynn is crouched under his desk. “What are you doing under there?”

“Leave me alone.” Flynn’s usually gruff voice wavers. “I’m fine.”

Lucy hums doubtfully and crouches down beside the desk. “I mean, you’re under a table, so fine might be a  _little_  strong…”

Flynn’s eyes flash out at her, bright as flint from the darkness. 

“This is a  _tactical position,_ ” he growls.

Up close, Flynn looks a wreck. He’s traded his usual attire of black jackets for a flannel shirt and worn jeans, and wears only black socks on his feet. He’s curled into a ball, knees to his chest, the heels of his hands pressing into his ears. His teeth are gritted in frustration, but his eyes are huge in the darkness, and there’s a wildness behind them that Lucy doesn’t like. 

She’s never sure exactly where the line between them lies, so it’s with a cautious uncertainty that she reaches out a hand to rub his knee. “Looks more like the fetal position,” she says, with a hint of a hopeful smile. 

Flynn won’t meet her eyes, but he moves one hand from his ear and wraps it around her smaller one. Lucy swallows. He’s shaking. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“ _Nothing_  is wrong,” Flynn grits out. “I don’t know why my damn–”

_CRACK-BOOM._

Another peal of thunder sounds, directly over their heads. Lucy winces, but Flynn issues a fearful cry. His hand closes like a vise, and the bones of Lucy’s fingers creak under his white knuckles. His eyes snap to her, and he starts babbling rapidly, but in a language Lucy doesn’t recognize.

“I don’t understand,” Lucy says firmly. “Can you hear me? Flynn?”

His speech only gets faster, his brow furrows in dismay, and he tugs on her hand, gesturing to the space beside him. Lucy looks at the dark, small space under the desk, and her throat closes up.

“I can’t come under there with you,” Lucy pleads. “And I don’t know if you can even hear me, but if you’re still in there…Flynn…” Lucy rubs circles into Flynn’s palm. It’s a trick she’s learned from Wyatt’s similar episodes. “You’re here in the bunker with us. You’re not–there, they can’t hurt you any more, Flynn, please…”

He just tugs harder on her wrist and babbles faster, breathless.

A wild determination to save him overtakes her, and Lucy leans forward to cup Flynn’s face in her free hand. There’s pain in his eyes, and Lucy is afraid that he’s seeing someone else. Still, he lets her climb on top of him, and Lucy holds his face in her hands. She gives it a squeeze, and then leans in and kisses him.

It’s gentle but thorough, and Lucy employs every way she knows to distract him: a hand on the back of his neck, one running through his hair, one sneaking down to interlace with his own. When she pulls back, Flynn gasps for breath, but he’s back, behind his eyes.

Lucy cradles his temples and presses their foreheads together. “Just breathe,” she whispers. “Breathe? With me?”

Flynn nods, minutely, and his eyes drift shut. Lucy closes hers too, and they stay like that as the storm ends, all lines crossed, finally breathing as one, with their breath ghosting faintly over each other’s lips.


	9. Garcy, lucy whump, drugging/captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting: S1 | Warnings: drugging, captivity  
> This is a prompt fill! Come send me fic requests at to-hell-with-oblivion on tumblr :)

Flynn isn’t sure why they haven’t killed him yet. Not that he’s complaining.

Rittenhouse has locked him in a stone cell somewhere in the depths of their base. He’s expected interrogation, or worse, but so far all they’ve done is put him in a heavy set on manacles that connect to the ones on his ankles. Right now, Flynn’s greatest concern is that it’s going to look a bit ridiculous when he finally escapes.

When the key turns in the lock, he’s sitting by the cell door, waiting to attack whoever comes through. It swings outward, and Flynn is up on one knee and ready to charge through, when a limp body is pushed through the gap and crumples to the floor. Flynn momentarily forgets all thoughts of escape. Even matted with blood, that dark hair is all too familiar.

“You two play nice, now,” someone says from behind the door, and then it slams shut. Flynn curses the missed opportunity.

He focuses his attention on the body on the floor. He really is very close to Lucy, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed, or even moved. From his position beside the door, Flynn calls her name. There’s no response.

When she fails to respond once again, Flynn huffs out a sigh and moves across the floor, his heavy chains dragging and clinking. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m coming over there. I’m not going to hurt you…

“Besides which,” he mutters idly, “we may as well work together; the real enemies are out there.”

She’s still not moving. “I hope you’re not dead,” he says, and takes her shoulder, rolling her onto her back. Instantly, he knows what’s wrong.

She’s not dead; her eyes drift gently to his face, but they’re hazy, and there’s none of the fear that Flynn expects to find in them. Her mouth hangs slightly open, and the blood on her temples is dried. Someone with less experience might have taken her to be badly concussed–and maybe she is–but Flynn recognizes the telltale signs. Lucy’s been drugged.

It’s not clear with what, exactly, but she’s not in any state to escape, which puts a damper on Flynn’s plans. And even if Rittenhouse having her weren’t a threat to his mission (which it is), Flynn already knows he couldn’t leave her behind. He settles back on his heels and exhales. “Damn.”

“‘m not scared of you,” Lucy mumbles.

“Yes, you’re very brave,” Flynn says drily. He gets an arm under Lucy’s shoulders and pulls her over to the wall.

He tries to get her sitting up, but Lucy is fully limp and keeps slipping out of his hands. Her head falls into his lap, and her blank eyes stare up at him, and Flynn is so frustrated from the effort that he just leaves her there. “Well. I hope you’re happy.”

“I mean it.” Lucy’s voice is sleepy, almost drunk. “I was scared of you at the beginning, but not any more.”

Some kind of truth serum, then. She would never have admitted that sober.

“That’s very nice of you to say.” Flynn is unconcerned. She’s been dosed with something else, too, and he doesn’t expect she’ll remember this when she comes to. “And I believe you. And while I won’t say it doesn’t make me feel all warm and fuzzy…” there’s a strand of her hair in her mouth, and Flynn removes it. “It’s really not wise. You _should_ be scared of me.”

“Nah,” Lucy drawls. “I don’t have to be scared of you; not like Wyatt and Rufus do. Are.”

“And where _are_ the soldier and the spy?” He may as well get his information while he can. “Did they get their own room?”

“They got away,” Lucy mumbles. “I think. But it’s my fault; I told them to run. And they went!” Lucy’s voice lowers. “I told them…I told them not to come back for me.”

Flynn hums. “From what I know of Wyatt, he doesn’t strike me as the _best_ at following orders.”

“We had a mission,” Lucy insists. Her voice rises. Flynn wants to ask about their mission, but it doesn’t look like he or Lucy are going anywhere soon, and he wants to see her calm. He so rarely gets calm these days.

So he touches her hair, barely, to get her attention. “Relax,” he soothes. “I’m certain that Rufus and Wyatt will come for you. You all have the most annoying habit of showing up where you’re not wanted, and besides…” he sighs. “I would bet they would _never_ leave you behind.”

A dizzy smile crosses Lucy’s face. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I’m right about _everything,_ ” Flynn murmurs, half to her, half to reassure himself. He touches her hair, and Lucy’s eyes drift shut. “You’ll know that eventually,” he says.

He hopes. Dear god, how he hopes. _Someday._


	10. Wyatt whump, injury, captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn and Wyatt are imprisoned together.  
> Warnings for canon-typical violence, captivity, and implied torture.

“Your first mistake was using rope,” Emma says to her men. She’s standing with her back to Flynn and Wyatt, arms crossed. “Idiots.”

“Hey, it’s fixed now,” her lackey complains, and gestures past her to them.

Flynn and Wyatt are chained to the stone wall, bound wrists attached to hooks above their heads and legs weighed down with literal ball-and-chains. It’s a measure added after their unsuccessful escape attempt, as though the broken ribs and painful concussion Wyatt had received in the attempt weren’t enough. Emma had taken the liberty of having them gagged as well, and Wyatt is wheezing behind his in a way that Flynn doesn’t like. Wyatt’s eyes are hazy with pain, and there’s blood trickling from his temple.

Emma’s first lieutenant, a brawny man with a gold tooth, sneers. “You ask me, the first mistake was leaving both of ‘em with workin’ legs…”

Emma snorts. “Yeah, you would.” She stalks out the door, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve got that baton for a reason. Go nuts.” Her voice issues from the hallway. “But not in there. Take him somewhere with a drain.”

_Him._  It chills Flynn’s blood. Wyatt makes dizzy eye contact. He’s breathing hard. The man with the gold tooth gestures to his lackey.

“Bloody the runt up.”

Flynn’s eyes go wide behind his gag, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the smaller man from unhooking Wyatt’s bound wrists and dragging him bodily across the floor. Wyatt struggles weakly, chains jingling, and the men laugh.

Flynn yanks hard on his chains as Wyatt is passed from one man to the other. His eyes burn with cold fury. Emma’s lieutenant stops in the doorway and looks back at him, Wyatt’s wrists dangling from his hand.

“You won’t get lonely.” He smiles darkly. “We’ll make sure you can hear him scream.”

Then he’s gone, with one last glimpse of Wyatt’s despairing eyes, leaving Flynn alone to wait and listen.


	11. Garcy whump, humiliation, torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "For the humiliation whump prompts.... - Making them beg to be hurt or thank the whumper for hurting them- for Garcy? With lots of lovely comfort afterward, pretty please!"
> 
> This one is especially painful and I love it. Warnings for the usual whump sadness, plus cursing, electrical torture and humiliation.  
> As always, feel free to come send me ideas/requests at to-hell-with-oblivion on tumblr :)

Lucy’s throat is sore from screaming, but she can’t stop, not while Flynn still thrashes in agony where he hangs from his wrists from a hook in the ceiling. Sweat streams down his bare chest, over the electrodes there connected to the diabolical machine under Emma’s hand. Although Flynn jerks and trembles, he stopped screaming some time ago. His voice is gone entirely, but silent tears stream down his face, and when Emma raises the dial a few notches, his rasping sobs hit a higher timbre, and his bare feet jerk a frenzied jig on the floor next to where Lucy is chained.

“Stop,” she screams, knowing it will do no good; Emma has been ignoring her begging for the last hour, and even now, looks rather bored as she regards Lucy and ignores Flynn. “Please, just  _stop._ ”

Emma rolls her eyes and switches off the current. Flynn goes limp in his bonds, too weak even to hold himself up. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing shallowly. Lucy isn’t sure he even knows she’s there. 

Each of her limbs is chained to a separate cinderblock, and Lucy strains to drag herself a few inches closer to him. “Flynn,” she whispers. The closest she can get is to rest her hot forehead against his bony shin, and she butts at his ankles gently, trying to get his attention. “Flynn, please look at me, please, Flynn–”

“That’s cute,” Emma snorts. She idly tips up Flynn’s chin to look into his half-lidded eyes. “Pathetic; but cute. I fried his brain pretty good, though. you really think he can hear you begging?”

Flynn’s lashes flutter, and his cracked lips move, barely. 

“ _Lucy,_ ” he breathes.

Emma’s jaw clenches at that, and with a vicious jerk, she flicks the dial up high.

Flynn issues a strangled wail, and his head falls back as he shudders in his chains. Lucy gazes up at him, her heart breaking. 

Then Flynn’s mouth moves, and Lucy realizes with horror that even though the pain, Flynn is  _smiling._

Emma must know she’s being mocked, because she scowls and turns the dial up the rest of the way. Flynn’s facade breaks and his face twists in a wretched grimace, mouth open in a silent howl.

“ _Stop,_ ” Lucy screams, and Emma sneers and cuts the power. “Please.” Weak from crying, Lucy drops to the concrete floor and sobs at Emma’s feet. “I’ll do anything, anything, just stop, please…”

“Really.” Emma’s voice is dry. “You’d do  _anything?_  What, for  _him?_ ” She snorts. “Like I believe that. All anyone wants is to stop seeing what’s shit about the world, not for any of that shit to actually stop happening.” Lucy claws at Emma’s pant leg, shaking her head wordlessly. “What, you wanna disagree? Prove it. Beg to take his place.”

Lucy gapes for a second, then clenches her jaw. Yes. Yes, she can do that. If it saves Flynn, she can do anything. So she fists a hand in Emma’s pant leg and says, as steadily as she can, “Hurt me instead. Please.”

Emma’s expression says that’s not enough, so Lucy takes a deep breath and gives up the last of her dignity. “Please,” she says, and the tears spill down her face. She’s so desperate. “I  _deserve_  it. I, I should be the one hurt instead of Flynn, put them on me, I’ll wear them, I’ll do it for him.” She’s shaking with the effort, but Emma rips the electrodes from Flynn’s chest and squats down in front of her.

“You’ll do it for  _me,_  princess.” Lucy nods, and Emma smirks and drops the electrodes in front of her. “Moment of truth. Put ‘em on your neck.”

Lucy does as she’s told, and Emma smiles with satisfaction and stands. Before turning on the machine, she grabs Flynn’s face in one hand. “You’d better watch,” she snarls. He looks horrified, and Emma smiles and looks down at Lucy. “And  _you’d_  better scream.”

Lucy tries to do as she’s told, and it’s not hard when the volts rip through her sensitive nerves and make everything go white.

She’s lying with her face against the concrete when Emma’s boot nudges her side. “Wakey wakey, princess. I gave you what you asked for; what do we say?”

“T-thank you,” she sobs into the floor. “Thank you f-for hurting me instead.” 

She hears something. With the aftershocks still tearing at her muscles, Lucy can barely lift her head. When she does, she sees Flynn. His eyes are on her, but there’s nothing behind them. Lucy wonders if he’s seeing someone else. “No,” he’s whispering to himself. “No, no, no, no, no, no…”

She’s doing this for him, and he doesn’t even know. “I-it’s okay,” Lucy whispers, but she can’t even reach his pant leg to get his attention. “It’s okay, Flynn…”

Then the agony takes her again, and Lucy screams, bruising her knees against the concrete floor, while Emma’s laughter rings in her ears.

* * *

“Oh, Lucy. What have you done?” 

Lucy comes to with Flynn’s low voice against her ear and his strong body all around her. Her limbs jerk violently, and Lucy moans as she realizes the painful aftershocks are still ripping through her muscles. Flynn is cradling her tight against him, and her cheek is pressed to his warm, bare chest.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Flynn murmurs. “You should have let her hurt me. I could take it.”

She manages to lift her head a bit. Flynn looks down, their faces very close, his eyes soft. “A-are you…” she gasps as an aftershock hits her, and Flynn holds her so tight her bones creak. “Are you o-okay?”

Flynn’s mouth opens for a moment. He looks just as hurt as when Emma had been shocking him. Then he takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead, hard and devoted. “Yes, Lucy,” he breathes. “I’m all right.”

“G-good,” she croaks, face softening in a peaceful smile. Her voice is still raw. “That’s, that’s good.”

Flynn whispers her name again, and presses her head against him. “I failed you,” he growls, almost to himself. “I’m sorry; I should have been stronger. For you.”

“You–” Lucy is about to object as strongly as she’s able, but another shock overtakes her and she breaks at the phantom pain, sobbing into Flynn’s collarbone. He whispers her name again and again, and pets her hair while she cries.

When it subsides, she’s lying limp in Flynn’s lap while his hands work on her buzzing muscles. He patiently rubs the staticky stiffness out of her arms, shoulders, and neck with unbearable gentleness, and Lucy whines as the tension leaves her.

“I’m sorry,” Flynn whispers to her, over and over. “Lucy, I’m so sorry.”

Lucy lifts a trembling arm to his muscular shoulder. “L-let me. For you.”

Flynn folds her hand in one big fist and squeezes. His eyes betray pain. “You’ve done enough,” he soothes. “More than enough. More than you needed to.”

His hands have stopped rubbing her, and one rests nervously on the small of her back. “Do the rest,” Lucy begs him. “Please?”

Flynn nods, his eyes dark. As his hand moves lower, she enunciates clearly, “ _Thank you._ ”

“Don’t say that,” Flynn says, voice breaking. “Don’t thank me. Please.”


	13. Garcy, lucy whump, accidental injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn tries to teach Lucy some self-defense. It doesn't go well.
> 
> Set early S2, when they're still figuring each other out. Warnings for canon-typical violence and accidental injury.

“ _Focus,_ ” Flynn growls. “For you, running is  _still_  the best option, but now it’s too late. I’m too close for you to run, so what are you going to do? Tell me, Lucy.”

Lucy’s face hardens, and she squares her shoulders. Flynn is bare feet away from her, stripped down to jeans and an undershirt that reveals every hard muscle. He’s been patiently taking her through the motions for the last hour, but the thought of him coming at her for real still makes her stomach turn over. Flynn may be on their side now, but the change is still fresh enough that seeing his eyes wild like this sends a familiar jolt of adrenaline through her veins.

He’d told her to use that. “Dodge, strike, run,” Lucy recites through her teeth.

“Just like I showed you.” Flynn nods. “It’s time for full speed; are you ready?”

Lucy nods, but Flynn shakes his head. “Not until you say.”

“I’m ready,” Lucy barks. Flynn flashes a wolfish smile, and–

He comes at her faster than she expects, and Lucy barely avoids getting clotheslined by his big arm. 

 _How can someone so big move so fast? Unfair_ , Lucy’s ever-busy mind supplies.

Still, she moves as practiced, ducking under and spinning away. As Flynn rounds on her, Lucy is close enough to see him smile, and she takes that opportunity to drive her elbow into his ribs, once, twice. Flynn huffs and stumbles back, dark eyes wide. Lucy falters.  _Is he–_

And he recovers in a vicious instant and swipes at her. Lucy sees bared teeth and what Rufus calls _the Terminator eyes,_  and she hears Flynn roar  _Run,_  and her nerves are abuzz but her legs won’t move–

All she can do is throw up her hands, which unfortunately leaves her open for Flynn’s big arm to smash into her ribs and knock her bodily off her feet. Lucy slams forward and bounces off his chest, and his arms grab her and hold up up. “Lucy,” he’s breathes. “Lucy, I’m sorry–”

He’s too big, too close, too  _deadly,_  and Lucy flashes back to the Hindenburg, to Lincoln, to Flynn dragging her around the World’s Fair, and she shoves him, hard. “Get away!” The motion makes her ribs hurt where he hit her, and Lucy presses her hands to where it hurts, breathing hard. “Don’t  _touch_  me.”

Flynn backs up, hands up. “I’m-I’m sorry,” he says. There’s panic in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to–I thought–”

“I know.” Lucy’s eyes are wary, and the pain makes her wheeze. “But…don’t come near me.”

She staggers to the bench at the side of the room and sinks down, holding her side. She keeps her eyes on Flynn, who turns his back on her and stalks to the other side of the gym. He runs a hand through his hair.

She should call Wyatt, she thinks. He had been opposed to this whole thing in the first place, but despite his insistence that he could train her just as well, Lucy was trying to help Wyatt understand that he was good for things besides violence. And, if she was being honest, there was something about Flynn’s unique lethality that she had thought would be helpful.

And she knows, as the pain in her ribs subsides, that calling in Wyatt would breach the trust she’s doggedly trying to build.

Difficult as it is, sometimes. With a deep breath that makes her ribs ache, Lucy calls his name and beckons him over.

Flynn approaches cautiously, head bowed, eyes apologetic. He keeps his hands visible, one of which holds an ice pack. He stops a few yards away, waiting for her go-ahead. Lucy sighs and nods, and as he approaches, Flynn kneels. He still stops a safe distance away.

“For your ribs.” He won’t look her in the eye.

Lucy doesn’t say anything, but she accepts the ice pack and holds it to the throbbing bruise. Flynn’s swallows hard, and dares eye contact.

He takes a deep breath. “Lucy–I am truly,  _truly_  sorry.”

“I know you didn’t mean to hit me.” Lucy shakes her head. “And accidents happen, but…with our history, Flynn, I just need…space.” She fixes her clear gaze on him. “I need you to be more careful.”

He gives an elaborate nod. “I understand.”

It hangs in the silence between them, this fragile thing. The bruise aches, but it’s a familiar pain, and Lucy knows that there will be time for it to heal.

Flynn clears his throat and rises, patting his legs. “Another?”

She looks away. Her ice pack is almost melted. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Flynn pauses. “I…” he seems afraid to say the words, and he glances down. “I appreciate the trust you have all put in me. More than I say.”

Lucy leans forward and looks up, regarding him frankly. “You know that’s got to be earned. Right?”

“Oh, I know.” Flynn chuckles bitterly, and when he looks up, there’s something soft and intent, like a promise, in his dark eyes. “Give me time.”


	14. Garcy, captivity, food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Character A and Character B are in peril, and Character B is super out of it. They have limited survival resources (not enough oxygen, not enough warm layers, etc.) and Character A takes advantage of Character B’s lack of lucidity to make sure that Character B survives, effectively dooming themselves." also, "Lucy and Flynn are held captive and fed very little. It takes Lucy a few weeks to notice that Flynn hasn’t been eating so that she can have more."
> 
> Warnings for captivity and food issues including voluntary starvation.

“You have to eat, Lucy.” Flynn’s voice is gentle and pleading. “Please try. For me?”

Something prods at her lips. Her eyelids are heavy with fatigue, but when Lucy cracks them open, Flynn’s face hovers in the cold light above her, dark eyes heartbroken and concerned. Lucy’s first thought is that he looks a mess: under a week’s worth of scruff, his already skeletal face is thin and lean. There’s blood dried at his temple.

Her next thought is,  _Food._  Rittenhouse has starved them for nigh on a week, so Flynn has been encouraging her to sleep, to save her strength. She doesn’t know how he managed to get food, but she’s so hungry she doesn’t care. She parts her lips, and Flynn slips something inside.

It’s dry and hard as cardboard– _stale bread_ –but Lucy still gums it gratefully. Her mouth is very dry, but Flynn massages her throat gently, helps her swallow. “That’s it. That’s good.” The crumbs scratch her throat, and Lucy coughs. Flynn helps her sit up and puts something cold to her lips. 

“Now, some water,” he coaxes.

Lucy gulps down a few swallows, then leans back against the cell wall, breathing hard from the effort. They’re both in the clothes they were captured in a week ago, now scruffy and ragged with dirt. Flynn kneels over her, close and warm and keeping protectively between her and the cell door. He looks better than Lucy feels. “You all right?”

“I’ve been better,” she croaks, and his face softens in a ghost of a smile. “They’ve…started feeding us?”

“Twice while you were out.” Flynn retrieves another dry crust from the paper plate and holds it up to her. “Have some more.”

Lucy’s brain isn’t firing on all cylinders, but she’s still pretty sure that Flynn needs to eat, too. With immense effort, she raises a trembling hand to the crust at her lips, and tries to push it away. “No. You…”

“I ate while you were sleeping; I’ll live. You need your strength.  _Eat,_ ” he urges. Lucy wants to argue, but her stomach is a gaping hole, so she lets Flynn feed her small pieces of bread. It’s not nearly enough, but she thanks him anyway.

“You’re very welcome.” Flynn watches her for one long moment before he settles down beside her. “Are you cold?”

“Yes,” she whispers. Flynn is stiff and uncertain as he slides an arm around her to pull her close–they’ve only been working together for a short time, after all, but desperate times call for desperate measures–and Lucy rests her head on his shoulder. Even under the dust and sweat and blood, she can smell his cologne, and it comforts her. They’re going to be fine. They’re going to get out.

Flynn tries to ignore the knawing in his stomach as Lucy falls asleep against him. He doesn’t like lying to her, but he knows she would never eat if she knew he hadn’t. Still, he’s fading fast behind his tough facade, and distantly he thinks of Rufus and Wyatt, hopefully out there somewhere, hopefully searching for them.

 _You two had better hurry up and find us,_  he thinks, glancing at Lucy’s dark head on his shoulder.  _I’m not sure how much longer this can last._


	15. Garcy, gentle angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a request from @sheilikhal on tumblr: “An important Rittenhouse agent uses Lucy as a human shield. She begs Flynn to shoot through her to kill him.” Featuring painfully clever Lucy and my particular brand of Feelings Whump.
> 
> Set post-Chinatown. The usual canon whumpy warnings for guns, threats, and death/violence mentions, but no actual injury.
> 
> (This is a prompt fill; you should feel free to come send me requests over at to-hell-with-oblivion on tumblr!!)

It’s not Lucy’s first time being used as a human shield.

Hell, it’s not even her first time with Flynn, so when the Rittenhouse agent they’re pursuing spins her around and puts a gun to her temple, Lucy knows to go limp immediately, forcing the man to support her weight. The big arm across her chest tightens, squeezing the air out of her, and Lucy gasps. The man snorts derisively, and his stinking breath rolls hotly against her ear. “Tell your little boyfriend to stand down. Or I’ll open your head.”

Bare yards away, Flynn hovers at attention, pistol trained on Lucy and her captor. He’s doggedly trying to find a clear shot, but Lucy can read in the set of his jaw that he’s calculating what’ll happen if he puts down the gun.

She can’t let that happen.

With her heart thundering (it’s painfully familiar, this terror of being on the wrong end of his gun), Lucy draws a shaky breath. “Flynn…” his eyes snap to her. “Shoot him, through me.”

Flynn’s eyes widen a fraction, and he shakes his head, just barely.  _No_.

Her captor snarls an obscenity in her ear and presses the barrel hard against her temple, making Lucy squeak in pain. “Shut up. You think he’s gonna risk hurting you? Really?” The man’s voice turns vicious. “I see how he’s looking at you right now.”

Although her voice is trembling, Lucy manages to bark out a laugh. “Seriously? Flynn doesn’t care about  _me_.”

She’s close enough that she thinks she can literally see Flynn stop breathing.

Still, she persists. “I assume your leader, Nicholas Keynes, has told you all about the dangerous  _Garcia_   _Flynn?_  And, of course, an important agent like yourself knows all about the journal…”

“Yeah?” The agent’s heart beats faster against her back. “So?”

“Then you know,” Lucy struggles to keep her breathing steady, “that Flynn just sees me as a meal ticket. I’m a means to an end to him. That’s all.” She holds Flynn’s broken gaze, determined to say with her eyes what she doesn’t dare out loud. “He needs me to write the journal, so he’ll keep me just alive, but…” the Rittenhouse agent takes her point just as she reaches it. “He can shoot me and still keep me alive.” Her eyes are steel. “And he knows that. Right, Flynn?”

The man holding her is breathing hard. “You wouldn’t dare,” he scoffs, but there’s a twist in his voice.

Flynn clears his throat. It’s not terribly dignified, but his eyes are empty when he cocks his gun. “Last chance to surrender,” he says, and Lucy’s blood runs cold.

There’s a long moment when none of them moves. Next to her head, the man’s fingers twitch on the trigger.

In a half-sob, half-scream, Lucy says, “Shoot me  _now,_  Flynn,  _please!_ ”

And suddenly she’s shoved forward, hard, and as she stumbles Flynn is there to catch her under the waist with one hand and pull her close, tucking her behind him. Lucy stands with her back to his, breathing hard, and there’s  _one_ — _two_ — _three_ gunshots and Flynn’s left hand in hers, squeezing tight.

When he finally turns to her, Flynn’s expression is stormy, but he holsters his gun and reaches up to wipe her tears with surprising gentleness. Lucy hadn’t even realized her face was wet. “Don’t make me do that again,” he whispers.

Lucy squeezes the hand she still holds. Her other, she realizes, hovers over his chest, wanting to comfort but uncertain where the line between them lies.

That’s quickly answered when Flynn’s big hand locks around hers and pins it to his chest. His heart flutters like a bird under her fingers. “I knew you wouldn’t shoot.” She struggles to keep her voice steady, and it seems to be enough, because Flynn exhales weakly and his shoulders go down.

It comes to them in a second that they’re still breathless and panting and standing alone together in a blind alley. Lucy steps away suddenly, and Flynn releases her hands as though he’s been burned.

As they’re walking briskly back to town, Flynn confesses in a rush, “I could never have shot you. You have to know that, Lucy.”

Lucy gives him a mocking smile. “Oh, good!”

Flynn looks affronted. “What, it’s  _that_  hard to believe?”

“I mean, you  _did_  shoot my one of my best friends, and get another one shot by Al Capone, so.”

“I  _apologized_  for that, you will remember.”

“You love your guns, is all I’m saying,” Lucy explains, and they walk back together like that, in soft conversation, their hands brushing gently as the light comes down.


	16. Garcy, drink spiking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “The team is out at a bar when Lucy’s drink is spiked. Flynn takes her somewhere safe to keep an eye on her until it wears off. The team finds them, suspects the worst of Flynn, and drags Lucy away from him, although in her drugged state, she doesn’t understand and can only wail.”
> 
> Set post-series. Whumpy warnings for blood, injury, drink spiking and associated scary implications, though nothing actually happens. Tread carefully and take care of yourselves, my friends. ❤

Even though they’ve been back to civilian life for months, though Rittenhouse is thoroughly defeated, and though Flynn has full confidence in her abilities, the sight of Lucy on the ground sends a familiar shock through him.

Half on protective instinct and half for his own comfort, Flynn keeps a running eye on Lucy’s location, and he’d first noticed her gone a few hours into the party. This isn’t necessarily surprising; Lucy, like all of them, is occasionally overstimulated by people after spending so long in the eight-person bunker, and during Connor’s lavish parties, is prone to retreating to her designated room of the mansion. But Flynn finds it empty, and after some thirty minutes’ searching through the sprawling house, panic rises in his throat.

He’s forced to interrupt Rufus and Jiya dancing to learn that they’d seen her wander out onto the balcony.  _She’d looked drunk_ , they tell him. Flynn goes to the balcony window and sees no one standing at the rail; but, he realizes with a dropping stomach, he can’t get a view of the floor.

The night outside is dark and very cold, but the stars shine brightly enough to reveal Lucy’s frail body crumpled against the concrete. As well as the pool of blood around her head.

Flynn’s there in a second, kneeling at her side.

“Can you hear me, Lucy? Can you open your eyes?” Flynn’s hand is trembling as he touches her shoulder to roll her onto her back. A little voice he’d cultivatd while trying to fit into the bunker reminds him that he isn’t permitted to touch her, even now. 

He’ll have to take that risk, for her. After all, Lucy has forgiven him for much worse.

She flops onto her back, limp as a ragdoll, and Flynn bends over her, brushing the dark hair from her face. Her blank eyes are open, and her lips are blue. The touch of her cold skin sends a shudder through him–this is a nightmare Flynn has had, the dead weight of her beneath him, her blood on his hands–but Lucy’s shallow breaths are puffing white in the air.

She’s not shivering, Flynn realizes, which is a bad sign. It already seems as though she’s been out here for a while, and that means her body’s given up on heating and is trying to conserve energy. She’s on the edge of hypothermic.

_Oh, Lucy…_

Flynn’s long fingers weave through her dark hair, matted with blood, searching for the source of the injury. He should have done this first, Flynn realizes with a sick twist in his gut. He knows he’s found the wound when Lucy hisses under his touch. Her eyes remain stubbornly blank, however; whatever has happened has locked her brilliant mind up somewhere beyond his reach.

As he cradles her head in his hand, brushing the dark hair from his face, Flynn’s mind flashes through a dozen impossibilities–drunk, ill, clumsy,  _Rittenhouse_ –but the sight of Lucy’s dilated pupils and half-open mouth hits him with a brutal certainty. Flynn’s heart stops on the spot, on the worst possibility.  _Drugged._

_But then–the blood–?_

It’s puddled on the floor and dripping off the railing. Flynn runs his fingers along the steel and finds the sharp edge, where she must have cut her scalp going down. As awful as that is, the rest of her seems unmarked, and Flynn flushes with relief and regret. From the railing, the empty balcony, her filthy but intact clothing, it’s clear that Lucy has dragged herself out here before anyone could hurt her. She’s saved herself once again. Flynn’s heart aches as he draws her upwards.

_She shouldn’t have had to._

Flynn slides gentle hands under her–she’s light as a bird, still, even without the rationing of the bunker–and draws her against him. Lucy’s head lolls onto his shoulder, and Flynn feels her warm blood soaking the shoulder of his dress shirt. It’s dangerously familiar. She’s trusting him and bleeding out in his hands, and Flynn has had this nightmare before.

It’s simple enough to carry her through the back halls of the mansion, to avoid the partiers and the undoubted chaos of _I saw Garcia Flynn carrying a woman covered in blood_. He’s enough of a sideshow as is. (Which is a conversation he’ll have to have with Connor about these parties, eventually.) Flynn’s first instinct–to take her to the room he’s claimed as his own–makes him feel sick, so he traces a familiar route to Lucy’s room. Flynn has stood outside it enough times.

The cut isn’t deep, thank god, but Flynn still ruins three towels staunching the blood. Alcohol is an anticoagulant, he knows, not to mention whatever drug is currently running through her veins. As if she can hear him thinking, Lucy mumbles into his chest, “’M not drunk. So you know.”

She’s sitting half-up on the bed while Flynn leans over her, tending to the wound on the back of her head. Because she can’t sit up on her own, she’s slumped forward, forehead resting against his collarbone. Flynn’s instincts as a soldier scream to wrap her cold, trembling body in his arms, but as a man, he’s hesitant to cross her boundaries more than is strictly necessary.

When she speaks, Flynn leans back on his heels and takes her chin in one bloody hand, lifting it to look into her eyes. They’re glazed, still, but drift sideways to focus on him. Flynn conceals his relief.

“Can you hear me, Lucy? Do you know–do you know who I am?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, brow furrowing as though lost in thought. “Flynn,” she adds, after a moment, and against his will, Flynn’s face softens.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Good.” Then, with his heart in his throat: “Who did this, Lucy?”

“I was hot.” It’s not an answer, and Lucy says it lightly, clearly lost somewhere. “So I went outside; I…” Her hand lifts to the towel at her head, and Flynn sees a little more awareness enter those dark eyes. “I fell?” 

“Yes. But you’re all right.” His eyes flash to the bloody towels beside her, and Flynn clears his throat. “You’ll  _be_  all right.”

“I’m so hot.” Lucy pants, her eyes fluttering shut. She tugs at the bloody collar of her blouse, exposing a stretch of white throat. “Help me, Flynn.”

It’s an order he’s followed thousands of times, in other, bloodier times and places, but here, in what can only be called painful reality, Flynn for the first time doesn’t want to know what Lucy’s asking. This isn’t something he’s in a place to give. He’s done enough damage, crossed enough lines, just by touching her, by bringing her to this private place when she’s this vulnerable. And he doesn’t dare leave her long enough to go find Jiya, or Denise, or someone more appropriate. 

Flynn scrubs a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I  _can’t move_.” Lucy shakes her head, barely, in frustration, and Flynn sees tears rising to her eyes. “I’m burning up, and my body won’t cooperate, and– _Flynn–_ ” her voice breaks. “I just need you to–”

“Don’t ask me to do this. Please.”

“You’re the only one here _._ ” Lucy shakes her head with more intensity, and her hazy eyes squeeze shut, letting a few tears slip free. 

Flynn’s mouth goes dry. She looks–coherent, like this, and it’s all too hard to remember that not long ago enough she wouldn’t respond to her own name. “ _You_  found me, and  _you_  brought me in here, so it has to be you, I just need you to–to take this  _off._ ” Her voice rises, and she tugs desperately at her blouse, one button popping free. Flynn catches her wrists in his hands, and she struggles. “ _No,_  Flynn,  _help me–_ ”

Flynn leans forward presses his forehead against hers, imploring. “I  _can’t_.”

“You  _bastard,_ ” she spits, just as the door flies open.

Flynn barely catches a glimpse of Wyatt moving in a blur before he’s ripped from Lucy and thrown backwards, a fist driving the air from to the gut. When Flynn stumbles upright, fumbling against the wall Rufus and Jiya are curled protectively around Lucy, Jiya hurriedly rebuttoning her blouse, and Wyatt stares Flynn down, his eyes wide and furious. “Out.”

The world tilts sideways as their fragile trust crumbles, and Flynn feels the sharp edge of their distrust as keenly as when he’d arrived in the bunker. “This is not what you think. I–I promise.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Just never expected to hear it from  _you._ ” Wyatt’s face contorts in fury, and he barks, “Out. Now.” Then, in a whisper through gritted teeth: “I don’t want to fight you in front of Lucy.”

“I was trying to  _help_ , dammit–”

“Help?” Wyatt’s voice drips with sarcasm. “That’s what you call it. I thought you were better than this, Flynn, I really did.” Wyatt advances, and Flynn takes a step back. Scowling with frustration, he puts up his hands.

“I don’t want to fight you at all, Wyatt.” He shoots Rufus and Jiya a pleading glance. “She’s been drugged; if you would let me just–”

“I think you’ve done enough, actually.” Jiya’s words cut like steel. Flynn drops his hands.

“Please,” he tries once more.

Rufus looks wary in a way he hasn’t since their first days together. Flynn’s breath catches as it closes on him that he’s trapped. They’re all giving him that look again, like he’s a monster, and maybe he is; he’d believed Lucy when she’d said he could be normal again but clearly they all know something he doesn’t and now that he thinks about it Flynn  _is_  drenched in her blood…

Finally, Rufus shakes his head and looks away. “You need to go, Flynn.”

“Before we make you,” Wyatt growls.

So Flynn goes.

He doesn’t leave the mansion. In fact, he barely makes it out into the hall before he sinks to the ground, his back to the doorframe, burying his face in his hands. There’s nowhere else for him to go.

He shouldn’t have touched her. Shouldn’t have held her. Shouldn’t have liked it.

When Lucy wakes, he can only hope that she’ll be able to tell the others what he was really doing. And if she believes what they do…well. Mason will kick him out of the mansion. Jiya and Rufus will never speak to him again. Wyatt will beat him to death, and Flynn thinks he would let him. He’s all too accustomed to trusting what Lucy believes.

Through the loneliness of new life, of being stared at by Mason’s guests, the hope of her, of all of them, had sustained him. In a moment, he’s lost it.

And she’s the only one who can save him now.


	17. Garcy, capture and rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set anytime post-Chinatown. Par-for-the-course whumpy warnings for captivity, cursing, injury, mild violence, guns and gun threats, and brief food mention.

She’d been taken three days ago.

It’s only by the concerted efforts of Wyatt and Rufus that Flynn’s rampage has been held back this long. Flynn really does have them to thank for that he’s managed to stumble upon the Rittenhouse hideout, but Flynn thinks little of that, or even of Rittenhouse itself, as he creeps through the abandoned house with his gun drawn. He’s restrained the singleminded urge for long enough, and now the soldier part of his brain buzzes at DEFCON 1 as he scans each empty room in an endless search for  _Lucy, Lucy, Lucy._

The sight of a group of men standing in a boarded-up backroom has Flynn ducking behind the door. A moment’s silence tells him he hasn’t been spotted, and he peeks through the crack at the hinge. 

What he sees makes his blood run cold.

There are two raggedy couches facing each other in the center of the room; Lucy lies on her back on the one facing the door, surrounded on all sides by Rittenhouse agents. Even from this far away, Flynn can hear her ragged breathing, and see the rapid rise and fall of her chest; she seems to be lying down out of exhaustion, which makes him furious and relieved in equal measure. At least her eyes are open, and her head is turned to glare at the agent who sits on the couch across from her, pistol leveled at her head.

As Flynn watches, Lucy rolls onto her side, breathing hard. The agents around her shift, and Lucy eyes them warily, but she just grits her teeth and continues wiggling. Lucy is visibly trembling, and all Flynn can think is that Rittenhouse has had her for days now; she must be starving, dehydrated,  _cold_  without the heavy jackets that keep the men warm. And that’s assuming Rittenhouse hasn’t hurt her. 

If they have, Flynn will be sure to repay every drop of blood tenfold.

Even without knowing she’s protected, Lucy continues to move. She’s rolled over onto her side, propped up on one arm, and Flynn’s chest tightens. Stubborn, impossible, impossibly  _brave_  Lucy.  

He’ll get her out of here if it costs him a limb.

“I told you to stay down!” The lead agent thunders to his feet in a second and strides forward, slamming the muzzle of his gun against Lucy’s temple. None of the men around her move to stop him. Lucy’s eyes squeeze shut, and Flynn can hear her panting. He prays it’s not in pain. 

“Damn, it’s annoying how she won’t listen. Sure we can’t just kill her here and be done?” 

That’s the end of Flynn’s tether. 

“Try it,” he growls icily as he saunters in, “and I’ll have to send your head back with your men.” He looks down his nose at the head agent, making the most of his impressive height and letting just the right amount of fury seep into his eyes.

The man lowers the gun from Lucy’s head,  _thank god,_  and takes a step back, sizing Flynn up. “You’re not one of us.”

“A bottom-feeding grunt, desperately clinging to power? No.” Flynn clears his throat, trying to maintain his composure. For Lucy.

He spots her out of the corner of his eye, trying and failing to conceal her gaping at him. It’s soothing, really, the reminder of what he’s holding back for, and after that the words come easy. “I work for Emma.” A murmur runs through the watching men, and Flynn seizes on that thread of uncertainty. “Personally. And she sent me to make sure you idiots wouldn’t do anything stupid, like  _shoot the prisoner_.” Flynn’s voice drips with venom.

“Hey, man, c’mon.” The agent puts up his hands. “There’s nothing you’ve got to tell Emma, okay? See, she’s fine.” He gestures with the gun, and Flynn tries not to snarl as the barrel sweeps over her body. “But, c’mon.” A shrug–where  _does_  Rittenhouse find these people, Flynn fumes, laser tag?–“Why do you think we’ve got all these guys on her, man? Girl’s tried to escape, like, seven times.” 

Flynn suppresses the the hot boil of fury in his chest.  _Seven times_  she’s tried to escape, and this man has the  _gall_  to be annoyed, as though he shouldn’t admire her strength, her resilience, her goddamn foolish  _persistence_. 

The agent doesn’t seem to have noticed the fury brewing on Flynn’s face like a storm. “Can’t I just shoot her in the leg? The arm? C’mon, give me something.” Flynn tenses as the barrel moves along Lucy’s body. Her ankles. 

Her wrists. 

Her legs. 

“I mean, it’s not like Emma needs her walking, right? She can be dragged–” 

The rest is cut off as Flynn’s hand shoots out and wraps around his throat.

It takes every ounce of his considerable restraint for Flynn to merely lower his arm, forcing the man to the ground. His other hand seizes the man’s gun and pries it free. When Flynn’s grip finally loosens, the agent sputters for air, and Flynn casts an icy glare over the rest of them.

“All of you, out.” They’re frozen, momentarily, until Flynn barks, “ _out,_ ” and sends them scrambling towards the door. Even the head agent goes, on his hands and knees.

“Wait,” the man says, stopping in the doorway. “Whatever you’re going to do to her–just don’t pin it on us, all right?”

 _Do to her._  Flynn’s blood boils, and he glances to Lucy for permission, but the sight of her hands trembling on the couch cushion makes him falter. Still, when he lifts his gaze to hers, Lucy’s eyes are sure, and an imperceptible nod passes between them.

Flynn stalks to where the agent cowers by the door. There’s lethality in his gait.

“What I am going to _do to her_ ,” Flynn enunciates coolly, “is ensure that none of you idiots has damaged this woman. She is more valuable than you–” he breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “To Emma. She is–valuable. Now get out,” he snaps, and the man scampers off, still holding his neck. Flynn slams the door after him, realizing his mistake a moment too late when Lucy issues a stifled yelp. Flynn winces and turns sheepishly on his heel, but there’s a smile playing around Lucy’s mouth.

He approaches her slowly and kneels next to the sofa, trying to maintain his dignity in the face of the crushing relief. Flynn is determined to remain professional, to merely examine her injuries like a good teammate because that’s the bar he’s trying to reach these days, but he’s entirely unprepared for Lucy to spring forward and wrap her arms around his neck.

“Lucy…!” It comes out as a surprised laugh, and Flynn coughs and lowers his voice an octave. “Lucy, are you–”

“I’m all right, Flynn. I’m all right,” she breathes against him. “They didn’t hurt me. Much,” she adds as she pulls back, and Flynn frowns, but he’s distracted when Lucy’s trembling hands cup his face. “I’m–I’m just so glad you came, I–”

Flynn blinks, thrown off guard. “Of  _course_  I came for you, Lucy.”

“I knew you would.” Lucy’s eyes are wet and soft, and her shoulders tremble where she holds herself up, so Flynn feels safe sliding an arm under her ribs to support her. Lucy gazes at him with something akin to relief. Flynn watches her lower herself into his arm, and with his breath in his throat, he holds her, just like that.

“I know it sounds crazy, Flynn, but I just…knew you’d come for me.” And if his heart wasn’t broken already, it does so right when Lucy lays her tired head against his shoulder. He’s close enough now to see the fatigue lines under her eyes, the three days’ grime on her face, and the purplish bruise spiderwebbing across her temple. On instinct, Flynn reaches up to cradle her head, and when his finger brushes the bruise, Lucy grimaces. “It’s fine,” she says, before he can speak. “After my third escape attempt, they had to put me to sleep for a while. I expected it.” She shakes her head. Gazing at her bruised temple, Flynn is struck by the ridiculous urge to kiss it better.

He’s prevented from humiliating himself by a knock on the door. “Um, boss? Message just came in from Emma. We’re supposed to get a move on.”

“Give me a moment,” Flynn snarls over his shoulder, and listens for the man scampering away.

“ _Boss?_ ” Lucy whispers, mock-impressed, and Flynn turns back to her, eyes twinkling. “You’re really moving up the ranks.”

“Shush,” Flynn chuckles, and slides his arm around her thighs ( _professionally,_ he reminds himself) to lift her easily in one arm. Lucy gives a breathy little exhale and puts her arms around his neck. Flynn can feel her trembling.

“Here,” he murmurs, and tucks Lucy inside his jacket, pulling the longcoat around her shoulder so that she’s flush against his chest. It’s only when her head drops against his shoulder that Flynn realizes she’s exhausted.

“ _Flynn,_ ” she breathes, barely more than a whisper. It might just be a reassurance but he can’t take that chance.

“Yes, Lucy.”

“You’re…holding back, with them. I know it’s for me.” Lucy lifts her heavy head, and Flynn sees the exhaustion there, and his heart breaks. “Thank you.”

“Holding back? No.” Flynn says softly, as he begins moving towards the door. “Your presence is…quieting, Lucy, in ways you don’t understand.”

Lucy’s hand tightens on the nape of his neck. “Don’t assume what I don’t know, Garcia Flynn.”

“I would never,” he promises, and reaches for the door.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Lucy is hurt and rescued, but when Flynn gets angry at seeing her like this, she’s visibly frightened, and Flynn hates himself for scaring her.”
> 
> This got a little brutal. Poor Lucy. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Set S1, with warnings for panic attacks, injury, guns, forced medicine, and blood. Also, although he feels bad about it, S1 Flynn is Not Nice. You have been warned.

Hiding out in the sea caves under the cliffs is  _supposed_  to make Flynn and his men harder to find, which is why it’s particularly irritating to find Wyatt and Rufus appearing on their doorstep in under a week. Flynn is lucky enough to catch them at gunpoint, and he’s just got the safety off when Rufus yells, “Don’t shoot! Lucy fell into the caves here. We just came in to find her.”

Flynn hesitate, eyes narrowing. His hand doesn’t move off the trigger. “…Where?”

“We were–tracking you, on the cliffs above.” Rufus swallows. “And Lucy fell through a crack. She’s somewhere in here, but we don’t know where exactly; my recorder fell through with her, so we’re trying to trace its signal…” He holds up a blinking device. “But that’s assuming it’s still functioning, and didn’t fall into the water. Also, that it even ended up in the same place she did, which is a long shot, but–”

“Shut up.” Flynn nods to one of his men. “Bring it here.”

“Like hell,” Wyatt snaps. There’s a tense shift in his weight as Flynn’s man approaches, and Flynn says sharply: “I wouldn’t try anything, Wyatt, unless you want to get shot that much sooner.” 

Wyatt fumes, but there’s really nothing he can do to stop Flynn’s man from plucking the tracker away. Once it’s handed to him, Flynn nods. “I’ll spare you today, for Lucy’s sake. And I _will_ find her, I promise you that. But now, it’s time for you to go.”

As Wyatt and Rufus are herded away at gunpoint, Flynn turns to one of his men, and instructs in a low voice: “Keep two guns on them at all times. When they get out, shoot them. Say nothing. You understand?”

It really is a shame that Rufus stands in his way, Flynn thinks as he searches the caves. The tracker works, and wonderfully; so wonderfully, in fact, that Flynn doubts he would have found Lucy without it.

And thank god he does.

Lucy has fallen into a dark, cramped crevice in the deepest part of the caves. Far above, a thin crack of light shines down from the cliff face, and Lucy lies crumpled in the water below, pale and unmoving. Although her eyes are open, she doesn’t respond to her name, and Flynn’s breath catches when he sees dark blood dripping from a gash on her forehead. He’d been calling her name, of course, fully aware that she was unlikely to respond, but he hadn’t even considered that she might not be capable of doing so. 

Still, that much becomes clear when he leans down to touch her shoulder. Her entire body shudders violently in the freezing water, but the rest of her remains stubbornly unresponsive to touch or sound. She’s panting sharply, and in the dim light, her hyperventilating breaths come out in white puffs of vapor. 

It says something about how far he’s gone that Flynn is grateful to see proof she’s still breathing.

He tries her name once more before reaching into the water, finding where her body lies crumpled against the hard stone, and drawing her against him. Lucy wails as she’s lifted, her face contorting in agony, and Flynn freezes; when his gaze rakes her in the dark, he finds her twisted left arm hanging limply from her side. 

 _Oh_ ,  _Lucy._

She’s panting in pain and shivering in his arms. Flynn is forced to hold her close as he carries her to the central cavern, one hand cradling her lolling head against his chest. Lucy hardly seems to notice, her eyes wide and blank. Anthony looks horrified when he sees them, but Flynn hisses, “This. Wasn’t.  _Me._  Fire up the  _Mothership._  Let’s get her out of here.”

For the moment, Lucy lies curled against his chest, her eyes closed and her breathing shallow, but when Flynn lifts her towards the  _Mothership_ , she flails in his arms. Flynn’s gritting his teeth and redoubling his efforts–he can’t give her the medical care she so desperately needs here–when he’s stopped by a small hand fisted in his shirt.

Lucy gazes up at him plaintively, her pupils blown. “Don’t put me in there,” she begs. “ _Please_ _._ ”

“I’m sorry,” Flynn whispers. Then he shoves her inside.

It breaks Flynn’s heart that he has to hold her down while he buckles her into the seat. Lucy tugs helplessly at her restraints, but thankfully (he’s a monster, he knows), she doesn’t seem coherent enough to work the buckle. 

After a moment, Lucy slumps in her chair, trembling, staring into space. “No,” she whispers tearily. “No, no,  _no._ ”

“I’m sorry,” he tries, but the words ring hollow.

It’s precious small comfort that their old warehouse in the countryside remains safely abandoned. Flynn frisks Lucy while he checks her injuries, but she hardly seems to notice, or maybe she’s just too weak to fight. Flynn isn’t sure which one he’s hoping for. 

(He wants to cry with frustration. This isn’t what he wanted.)

There’s no weapons on her, but Flynn does find Rufus’s recorder clenched in her white-knuckled fist. She’s held onto it all this time.

Karl taps his shoulder. “Boss. We’ve gotta set that left arm.”

Across from him, Lucy momentarily surfaces from her fugue, wet eyes flashing. She cradles the broken limb against her. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses. “Don’t you  _dare._ ”

Flynn leans forward, considering her for a long moment. His mouth opens, but no comforting words present themselves.

“Fine.” He gestures to his men. “Do it. Try…try to be gentle.”

Flynn stands by to make sure they do, but that means he’s also watching while Lucy screams and fights and curses, while her dark eyes bore into him, while the tears spill down her face. It’s almost a relief when he retreats to a side room to listen to the recording.

(He makes sure to leave Karl with instructions to keep her covered with a blanket, and to fetch him if she stirs.)

Flynn is temporarily distracted from his worrying by the chatter at the beginning of the recording, which only confirms what he had already suspected: Rufus and the others have determined a way to track his jumps. He’s still thinking about that when he reaches the point of her fall, but the sound of her broken scream quickly catches his attention, and what follows quickly makes his blood run cold.

There’s an hour of it.

An hour of Lucy, alone in the dark, screaming for help. An hour where she goes from screaming, to sobbing, to speaking. He hears her try and fail, repeatedly, to get to her feet. He hears her call out for Wyatt and Rufus, over and over, and they never come. He hears her hyperventilate.

And then he hears her trembling voice whimper his name. “ _Flynn…_ ”

A muscle in his jaw twitches with impatience as he listens attentively for the relief of himself splashing nearer. 

To his horror, it never comes. On the tape, Lucy whimpers for a while longer, before falling silent.

When he finally hears himself arrive, far later, Flynn switches off the recorder. He thinks he would cry if he had any tears left.

Instead, he crushes the recorder to bits. Stomps it under his boot, over and over, until its components are practically dust. Then he puts a hole in the nearest wall, just for good measure.

He’s standing there, breathing hard and dislodging his fist from the plaster, when he hears someone speak behind him. The voice is trembling, thin, and horribly familiar. 

“ _Flynn?_ ”

He turns to find Lucy frozen in the doorway behind him. 

She looks like a deer in headlights. 

To borrow a phrase, it’s a long shot, but Flynn tries to offer his hand, palm up, unthreatening. “Lucy–”

She doesn’t wait to hear his excuses. She’s gone like a shot down the hall. Yelling her name, Flynn pursues. 

By all rights, Flynn should have no trouble catching up to her; his legs are longer, and Lucy is shaky as a fawn on trembling legs. But in her determination, she slips out of his reach, and in a second she’s gone out the warehouse door and into the pitch-black night. 

Karl appears at Flynn’s shoulder, panting. Flynn turns a vicious glare onto him, but receives only a shrug in response. “Girl’s quick, boss. She went from zero to fifty like nothing.”

Of course. He’s underestimated her once again.

For the second time that night, Flynn hesitates. Leaving their safehouse is a risk, hunted as he is, but he already knows he’ll follow her. He’ll always follow her. With his heart in his throat, Flynn grabs his coat and storms out after her.

This time, he’ll find her. Before it’s too late.


	19. murdervision, beating, captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Platonic MurderVision whump. Set post-S2. Warnings for beating, blood, and injury.)

Flynn bears up under the beating as long as he can. He really does.

By the time his knees give out, he’s been crying silently for several minutes. The men laugh when he goes down hard, when his head strikes the floor with a sharp  _crack_. The only thing keeping him from passing out is the heartbreaking sound of Jiya screaming his name. 

Flynn’s eyes are swollen and sticky with blood, but he can still see her squirming and fighting in the arms of their Rittenhouse captors. He can also see her watching them with fury in her eyes, waiting for her moment, and he sees when their arms slacken slightly, and Jiya slips free.

Flynn isn’t sure how far he gets his head off the ground–it might only be a few inches–but she needs to know, she  _needs_  to hear him croak: “Leave me. Go!”

Instead, Jiya runs to him without hesitation. Flynn cries, and he’s not sure if it’s despair or relief.

Jiya rips a strip from her favorite shirt and dabs the blood out of his eyes. Her jaw is tight. “Not without you.”

A pair of military boots shuffle across the floor towards them. “Maybe next time we hit him,” a gruff voice growls, “you’ll do as you’re told a little sooner.”

Jiya’s hand is stroking over Flynn’s hair as gently as possible, but it’s still shaking with fury. She looks up at their captors and snarls, “You’re  _dead._ ”

With every rib broken, with no hope of escape, hearing that somehow delights Flynn more than anything in years.

When the men have gone, Jiya leans over him, steadily wiping the blood from his face. “We’re going to get out of here,” she whispers to him. “And then, I’m going to make every one of them regret being born.”

Blood comes up with Flynn’s rattling laugh. “Oh,” he breathes, “I believe it.”


End file.
